The weight of the world
by Mikiya2200
Summary: Set after "99 Problems". Post-Apoc-fic, no spoilers at all. My take on what life could be like for the boys after everything is finally over, Bobby's POV. Read and enjoy!


**A/N:** This started with a picture I couldn't get out of my head, Sam and the Impala. I don't really know why it went where it did. And I've never thought I would write an after-apocalypse fic cause I never really wanted to go there. But well, the boys had other ideas. This follows this week's episode ("99 Problems") but I am not dwelling in any form on who is to blame for what and who is right and who is wrong because I'm really tired of it. Whatever happens in this story is free of any judgement on my part, it just happens and that's it.

**A/N 2:** This is more just an impression of what I would imagine life for the boys AFTER to be like, it isn't really a story with a plotline.

Dedicated to **Ghost**, my long lost "twin-sister". ;) Thank you for all those long nights and all the great chats we've had!

**Betas:** Ghost and Twinnytwinchy. Thank you so much, guys, if it wasn't for you this thing would still hide in a folder on my hard drive.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the guys or Bobby or the songs I quote. Thank God!

Title taken from Jon Bon Jovi's "Miracle" from the Blaze of Glory-Album.

* * *

**The weight of the world**

By Mikiya

_You're looking for salvation,  
You thought that it'd be shining,  
Like an angel's light.  
Well, the angels left this nation,  
And salvation caught the last train  
Out tonight.  
He lost one hell of a fight._

Jon Bon Jovi, "Miracle"

It isn't hard to find them.

The Impala is parked in a small clearing, next to a bare tree whose dead branches sway slightly in the soft breeze. The sun is shining, too bright, too warm_—too alive_ for a site like this.

Sam is slouching on the hood of the car, wrapped in an old, worn-out blanket, turned to the side, away from me. The tired slump of shoulders as well as shaggy hair sticking up in odd angles on one side of his head and completely flattened against his skull on the other side tell me that he has not been awake for too long. He is watching something in front of him, something I can't see because it's on the other side of the car.

I take another step toward him, and then there is this sound. A weird mixture of grunts and groans, mingled with breathless puffs for air. And I know Sam is not alone. I recognize the noise for what it is: Dean going through his morning routine of sit-ups. I had to listen to that for over two months after—

It still sounds as if he is choking on his very last breath, though, like a death-rattle. Not that I'm going to tell him.

Neither of them seems to have noticed me so far, and I briefly entertain the thought of sneaking up and scaring the crap out of them. It would serve them right for the messes they've left behind, for the crap I have to put up with every time they haunt my yard. And it would be funny. The only thing that's holding me back is the fact that it's still a little awkward to walk with that cane, let alone move silently with it.

So I just go on. Well, limp actually. But I'd take limping any time over being back in that… that _cage_ again. The mere thought of that steel-prison is enough to think about including that Constantine-knockoff into my prayers tonight. Problem is, I don't pray. Tough luck.

Another step closer, and I can see Sam's blanket-covered back rise and fall slowly as he breathes—

—… _not breathing, Bobby, why's he not breathing?"_

"_Get him out of here, go Dean, get _out_—"_

—and holy _shit_, I didn't really expect to be hit by them so soon. I stop moving, clutch the damned cane tight and try to find _now_ before the memories swamp me. I have barely been here for ten minutes… This is going to be a long day, I can tell that already. Dammit, I'm getting too old for this shit.

I take a deep breath and the next step. Sam still hasn't noticed me, and for a second I remember how I would never have been able to get this close to either of them only five years ago. To be honest, I'd take a growl and a gun pointed right between my eyes any day over this, but things have changed; they—_we_ have changed so much since that night. A lot of those changes have been painful, none of them have been what I wanted for the boys and still… it could have been so much worse.

Sam seems to have zoned out. He is doing that a lot nowadays. The doctors didn't find anything wrong with his head, but they didn't know the truth. We couldn't really tell them the poor kid had taken a backseat to the devil, if only for a few moments. From what I have gathered from Dean's description about Raphael's ex-vessel, we can really be grateful the idjit hasn't been reduced to a vegetable. I know I am. Grateful that is, 'cause you know what they say, 'beggars can't be choosers', and beg we did back then. A lot. Not that it had mattered…

The cane hits something with an audible crack and Sam finally reacts; his back stiffens and he whirls around to look at me, snapping from sleepy to awake in less than a second, just like any other hunter I have ever met. He doesn't seem to have a weapon on him at the moment and I think that's what saves my ass right now. Startling Sam out of his thoughts has always been a good way to get your head cut off. For a split second I'm not really sure if sneaking up on him may be the last mistake I ever make, but then his eyes widen in recognition and he gives me one of his rare so-happy-to-see-you-smiles, which has me grinning at him in response.

And then reality comes crashing down on me as he opens his mouth to greet me.

"Hey, Bobby!"

His voice is still painful to listen to, because it's not really there. It's a raw croak; he sounds as if he has been screaming himself hoarse and then swallowed a whole book of sandpaper to ruin whatever was left of his vocal chords. It makes me wince in sympathy and Sam notices, of course. He flinches back in a way that spells _I'm sorry_ and I barely stop myself from smacking him upside his head. Like any of this shit is his fault.

Dean's head pops up on the other side of the hood and saves me from dealing with Sam's apologetic grimace. Dean is wearing that shit-eating trademark grin that has the ladies falling for him in a second. At least that's what I guess he is still telling himself. And maybe it is true, maybe chicks really dig scars -although I think they'd have a really hard time with that one. The damned sword had only grazed his temple and the wound wouldn't stop bleeding for two long days. It left Dean with a prominent welted scar that starts almost in the middle of his forehead and goes all the way down to his right ear. He is lucky it didn't touch his eye.

"What's up, old man?"

And if he keeps talking like that, he is going to have to find yet another scar on him to impress the ladies with. I opt to ignore his greeting and hold up the paper-bag I have been carrying.

"Brought you something." I hand it over to Sam who opens it and looks inside. His lips curve up into a pleased smile and he pulls one of the plastic cups out, then hands the bag over to Dean. I lean back against the side of the car, shifting to get the weight off my bad leg and watch how Dean accepts the bag and goes for a sandwich first, tearing into it as if he hasn't eaten anything for at least a year.

"How did you find us anyway?" Still inhaling the sandwich, Dean gets to his feet, sitting down on the other side of the hood, looking over at me questioningly. I look back for a moment, wondering if he is serious. He just looks at me. Idjit. I lean the cane against the door next to me and cross my arms in front of my chest.

"I've been here, too, you know? I know what day it is and I know _you_."

Dean ducks his head slightly and nods to himself, then devours the rest of his sandwich in silence. I watch him for a moment, then let my eyes wander across the valley in front of us.

It is so quiet around us, it is hard to believe this is where it all went down, where heaven and hell had their little pissing contest. I don't remember how I was picturing the big fight back then, probably a lot of hellfire, the ground beneath us opening up and swallowing us whole, hellhounds and demons en masse to welcome their king on one side and the complete host of heaven on the other. Wings, feathers, righteousness despite everything we've been through, glowing swords, booming voices, the wrath of whoever upstairs. Basically the King James Bible in all its gory glory come to life.

What we got was as anticlimactic as you can imagine.

The angels didn't show up.

Oh yeah, they were there, I could feel them breathing down my neck, but they never showed, never spoke a word. The blasted cowards never raised a single hand to help us.

Except Castiel.

He was there, I remember that, trench coat and all. And yet it wasn't him. He had changed, so much, I wouldn't have recognized him at all if not for that damned piece of cloth. His eyes were wrong. Well, maybe not wrong but different; no recognition, no compassion, nothing but an empty gaze that spoke of a being way older than I would have thought. I don't remember what he did, if he did anything at all. I lost track of him when Sam started screaming.

It is the first thing I remember of that night and the last thing I'll ever forget. I still wake up in the middle of the night with that god-awful sound in my ears.

Lucifer was next in line.

Appeared out of thin air might be a better term for it. He looked awful, we could see his vessel was wearing thin: blisters all over, like the very skin was trying to get away from the evil inside the body. I doubt he could see much, if anything at all; his eyes were swollen shut and he held his head at a weird angle, not really focusing on anything. Not that he needed to be able to see. He could _sense_ Sam, honing in on the boy like a friggin' dog would find its favourite bone—

We'd thought we'd come prepared, we'd thought we'd come up with every possible outcome, with every possible twist this awful story could take. Sam was going to say 'no', no matter what that bastard would throw at him. We'd talked about it, Sam had been worried Lucifer would use me as bait, that he'd torture me in front of his eyes to allow him to get in. He begged me to stay at my place, to let him go alone, but his heart wasn't in it, I could tell. He didn't want to go alone but he would have gone, had I asked him to.

And really, we figured it would have made no difference where I had stayed, Lucifer would have made me appear in front of him if he really wanted to use me to torment Sam, since I don't have those fancy protection sigils on my ribs. I took the kid aside that night and I told Sam I was okay with dying should either angels or demons use me to get to them, to _him_. He couldn't look me in the eyes, just nodded weakly, mumbling something under his breath and then wrapped me up in a bear-hug and wouldn't let go.

We were so stupid (or desperate enough?) to believe the devil would have to play by the rules. That he would have to ask Sam, that he really needed his consent to get into his vessel.

He didn't.

Sam never had a chance.

I've seen that boy mindless with pain and self-loathing after John died, stayed with him during the first weeks after Dean got dragged to Hell and tried to calm him down when Dean was in that coma and we had no idea if he would survive. I have seen him at his lowest, in his most desperate times, and despite everything life has thrown at him, I have never seen him afraid, scared. Not for his own life.

When Lucifer set his eyes on him, Sam freaked: he went as white as a sheet and reared back from where he had been standing next to me, as if he had been hit by a physical blow. I'm not really sure if he was aware of it but I will never forget the look in his eyes, the terrified expression that screwed up his face. He actually took a step back and _hid_ behind _me_, the guy in the wheelchair. The poor kid had been trembling so hard that my whole chair was shaking and in that instance I would have given my life to get that look off his face—

—_and Sam is _floating_ in the air, head thrown back, his face twisted into a grimace of pure agony. His breath is coming in short gasps and his body is bucking violently under something that is assaulting him in waves. His hands claw uselessly against the very air around him, tears streaming down his face while he is screaming something I cannot make out at first. But then the howling of the wind around me rises to new levels and so does his voice, a stream of broken words drifting toward us._

"—_lied to me—nonono—DON'T! You cannot do this—liar—I won't let you—ever—"_

Someone clears their throat and I look up into Sam's questioning eyes. He is watching me over the rim of the plastic cup. I blink to clear my vision, fighting hard to get a grip on myself, trying not to let it show just where my mind has been. He looks at me for a moment, then smiles softly, and I know I can't fool him. He _knows_, damned kid is reading me like an open book. To think we almost lost him—

Sam was in a coma for two months _after_.

We didn't know if he would ever wake up again; we didn't even know why he didn't come back in the first place. The doctors couldn't figure it out. All they knew for sure was that his body had been pushed well beyond its limits, though _how_ they couldn't say. Dean wasn't too worried, in fact he didn't seem too afraid about it at all.

"This time he has to come back because he wants to, I won't force him again…" Dean told me one night while we were sitting next to Sam in his room. I have never seen him that relaxed about a hurt, possibly _dying_ Sam, and I wanted to be shocked, to rip him a new one for giving up on his brother after everything the kid had been through. But I couldn't, the words wouldn't come. Because he was right, we had no right to force Sam to stay, not this time.

"I'm not giving up, Bobby. If he wants to come back, I'll be here; if he wants to move on…" His voice had given out at that point and he'd taken a shaky, deep breath, squeezing Sam's ankle softly beneath the blanket. "If he wants to move on, I will let him go. I owe him."

Sam woke up two days later.

"Bobby?"

This time it's Dean talking to me and I look up, realizing I have zoned again. Dammit. I watch them trade a knowing look and decide I won't let them turn this into something about me, not when there is still something I need to get off my chest.

"By the way, bang-up job up there in Ohio."

Dean freezes for a second, the hand with the coffee cup halfway up to his lips while Sam's eyes widen in alarm and he darts a kind of panicked look at me. Then their eyes meet exactly like they did when they were still young and I caught them playing pranks on me. Just like then, I can almost hear them wondering how much I might know.

And boy, do I know.

Dean recovers first, his cup meets his lips and he takes a long sip, then he shrugs, going for casual. "Was a little tight but we made it."

I swear I can see Sam blush a little and he avoids my eyes just as skilfully as his brother. I nod my head slowly, making a show of arching an eyebrow at Dean. "That's one way to put it."

It's working, casualness is slowly changing into weariness and Dean frowns while Sam stares at his hands.

"We had it covered, it wasn't that bad…" And now Dean sounds exactly like his thirteen year old self when he tried to make me believe that his sprained ankle didn't hurt _that_ much. I saw right through him then, and I'll be damned if he can fool me now.

Besides, I have a witness. "That's not what Drew said."

Both heads snap up and the look they exchange, I can read easily. _Oh shit_. I'm not going to let this one go. "I told you to wait for him."

Dean straightens a little, thrusts his chin upwards and narrows his eyes. "What difference would it have made? He'd probably just done something stupid and got us both killed. We had it under control." He's challenging me, daring me to tell him he did something wrong and there are a few things I could throw at him right now, but I'm not trying to pick a fight. I want to get my point across.

"He's a skilled hunter, son."

I know it's the tone of my voice that takes the wind out of his sails and he drops his gaze slightly, sighing softly, "Bobby—"

"There was a reason I asked him to go and help you."

Sam looks up. "What reason?"

I look both of them in the eyes before I answer. "I knew he wouldn't be affected by her… _charms_."

Sam looks curious, Dean just seems annoyed, but there's no real heat in the glare he sends my way, nor in the somewhat sulky growl. "He got a special potion or something? Why would he be immune?"

This is way too much fun to stop now. And they need to be taught a lesson. I look at them, hoping they don't pick up on how worried I had been back then.

"Think about it, it was a succubus. What's their MO?"

"To get some poor shmuck in the sack and suck them dry, while sucking them—"

"Exactly." I cut the boy off before his descriptions get any more detailed. Dean's attention to detail in this area is a little too much for me. And Sam, if his quiet groan means anything. Dean wiggles his eyebrows at me but I refuse to let him get the upper hand on this, and so I simply stare back at him, raising my own brows in a silent question.

Sam gets it first. His eyes suddenly go wide and snap over to me. I can see the blush creep up his cheeks and he winces slightly. Bright boy.

"Oh." That's all he stammers and even in the hoarse whisper I can sense embarrassment. Good, that'll teach him.

"What?" Dean is looking back and forth between us. "How did he do it, did you give him a secret superpower weapon or something?" He is getting irritated, I know he doesn't like being kept in the dark, and especially not when Sam and I team up against him. Bugs the hell out of him actually. I almost feel sorry for him.

Yeah, right.

Sam grins at me which has Dean shoot an annoyed glare in my direction before he turns to his brother and snaps at him, "Come on, Sam. Spill!"

"He didn't swing that way, Dean," Sam croaks and I lean back against the car to watch the understanding slowly crawl across Dean's features. You can see the exact moment he makes the right connection and, just like Sam, he seems a little embarrassed at the realization that I had to send a gay hunter after them to save their asses. And isn't that a picture best forgotten before you think about it too long?

Unlike his brother Dean recovers a whole lot faster and even before I see his smirk I know that this one is going to be on Sam, as usual.

"Well, that explains why he kept checking you out, Sammy…" Sam's glare is dangerous enough to make a Wendigo roll over on its back with its tail between its legs but as usual it has no effect on his brother, Dean merely shrugs it off. "What, you think I didn't notice?"

Sam rolls his eyes and turns away from Dean and toward me, effectively blocking Dean from our side of the car.

"How have you been, Bobby?"

That's a good question, how _have_ I been?

It's hard to believe that the end of the world took place only two years ago. It's even harder to believe that I've been there, smack in the middle of it when it happened. I still wake up sweating and shaking at night whenever I forget to take the pills. And I haven't really been more than a bystander.

The boys refuse to talk about what exactly went down that night. I made them tell me the gist of what had happened after I got taken out but whatever those damned angels really did… I will never know. And most of the time I'm just so damned happy about that. I know Dean doesn't remember what happened after he gave Michael what he wanted, just like I know Sam won't ever be able to forget—

"_Bobby, I don't want him to know…" _

_I can barely hear Sam's whisper over the sound of the __heart monitor and I lean toward him, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. _

"_You just get better, kid, we'll sort everything out later…"_

_The stubborn dumbass is fighting the medication, I can tell that by how he starts blinking heavily as he keeps talking. His tired eyes are pleading with me and for a moment I'm almost impressed with how far that kid can push his body. "No, Bobby, please, not this time. Just… please don't tell him…"_

"_Son… I know why you don't… He has a right to know—"_

"_No!" Sam tries to sit up and the heart monitor starts beeping faster. He doesn't get far, his body is trembling so badly that he just collapses back into the cushions before he can lift his head. "I can't lose him again, Bobby, not after everything… I would… he couldn't live with that. Please, Bobby, please don't…" His desperate words die down to a thin wheeze and while I'm forced to watch how his exhausted body drags him under his wide eyes never leave mine._

_Dammit, kid._

And, apparently, I won't be able to forget either.

I know it isn't fair, I should be there for them, I should _help_ them, listen to them, do _something._

But I can't.

And they know.

They never talk about it, they never bring it up, it's like it hasn't happened at all. And maybe that's not really healthy, maybe all that repressing and sucking it up will come back to kick us in our asses big time someday, but, for now, it works. And I'll take what I get for as long as I can get it, no questions asked.

But it's still there if you know what to look for; Sam's lost voice, the scar on Dean's face, those are just the most recognizable hints, even strangers would see them. I'm talking about things you can't _see_, you would never notice if you didn't know… How they no longer drive across the whole country in search of new jobs, how they stay as close to this place as they can and still go about their family's business. I don't know if they are even aware of it but they hardly ever go much further than Ohio. It's like the place is some giant candle and the boys are drawn to its light like moths.

Then there's the way how they make sure they are not sleeping at the same time, they are forever guarding each other's backs. There was this one time when Dean was doped up on painkillers after taking a bullet to his shoulder, more or less passed out on my couch. Even though Sam had been sick as a dog with the flu at that time he refused to fall asleep until Dean woke up again. I had wanted to help him back then, slipped a sleeping pill into his tea when he wasn't looking and it worked. For about ten minutes. And then suddenly he bolted upright, wide-awake, shouting something I couldn't make out.

When he found out about the pills he got furious. I've had my share of fights with the kid, both serious and playful but he had never yelled at me before. Usually, when Sam gets pissed he goes silent, most of the time you would never notice he is upset at all.

Not that night. Something had scared the living crap out of him, he was shaking so badly he couldn't calm down for over two hours. Even Dean, high on drugs and not completely lucid at all noticed his distressed and clawed his way out of unconsciousness, watching Sam through heavy-lidded eyes until the kid finally stopped trembling.

We never talked about it and it never happened again. But it's moments like that which remind me of what the boys have been through, how broken they really are.

But still, they go on, they don't give up. I remember how worried I was after they left for their first job, how I stayed near the phone in case the boys would call, would need my help, like a damned mother hen. I had figured I was entitled to some worrying after everything we've been through.

But I needn't have worried, they were fine, they even sent me a postcard. It was some cheap card with a photo of them on the back, the kind I would never have expected to get from them at all. They are posing like some tourists in front of the Grand Canyon, Dean wearing sun-glasses and a black t-shirt that reads "My brother went to Detroit and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" and making rabbit ears behind Sam's head. Sam is grinning at something behind the camera, looking as relaxed and peaceful as I have ever seen him.

The card went on the door of my fridge and I finally let them go.

"Bobby, you okay?"

Two worried faces are looking my way. For a moment I consider brushing the question off, ignoring it with a counter question or a snappy remark about how I have never been better. I don't know what makes me stop, why I just look back at them with a smile tugging at my lips.

"Yeah."

Because, right now, I am.


End file.
